


A Deep Blue Sky

by Xarixian



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Crazy, Domestic, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 18:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xarixian/pseuds/Xarixian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jimmy finds himself torn between two lives—the life he has with his wife and daughter, and the life he wants with Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Deep Blue Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Triggers for cutting.

Dean's sprawled out on the porch like a cat in the sun, face tipped up to capture the light, limbs splayed at odd angles over the steps, a near-empty beer in one hand. Jimmy stands in the doorway, the fridge-cold bottles making his hands tingle. Something catches in his throat, and when he finally steps out into the light, the "Here," he utters as he passes Dean his fresh beer comes out as a strangled croak.

Dean laughs, takes the beer, but his eyes—so green in the bright sunlight—stay fixed on Jimmy's face. Jimmy looks away; he doesn't want to, but even now the calculating looks Dean gives him unsettle him; and there are the neighbours to think of. He's always so self-conscious around Dean, has to be, because it only takes a second, if that, for the piñata to crack open, spilling secrets like candy all over the lawn for anyone to grab ahold of.

Dean rolls his shoulders, clicks his neck. It makes Jimmy wince when he does that, and he's pretty sure Dean's doing it now to wind him up. Dean has always taken a certain amount of pleasure in Jimmy's frustration. Sometimes he has to wonder if Dean actually cares at all, or if it's all just a game to him. Even after a year, he still finds Dean hard to read.

Jimmy, on the other hand, is an open book. Dean's life is hidden away in the past, in the quiet shadows of his self, but Jimmy's is right here. It's this house, this street. It's the blonde woman walking up the sidewalk, coming back from the grocery store, a paper bag cradled in her arms, her sandals flip-flopping as she walks. She smiles at them as she approaches, frees a hand to wave, gold band on her ring finger catching the light.

"Hey, Amy," Dean says, in that casual, laid-back way of his, while Jimmy stands to kiss her and take the groceries. The use of her nickname sparks something in Jimmy, almost like jealously. Amelia has never been Amy to Jimmy—always Amelia. They knew each other when they were six, before Amelia decided to reinvent herself, and old habits die hard.

He heads inside as Amelia flops down on the porch beside Dean, takes up Jimmy's beer, and drinks, even though she has to pick up Claire in an hour. Claire is the other fragment of Jimmy's life that walks and talks. Ten years old, she's already top of the class, and spends so much time in her room these days that Jimmy misses her even when she's home. Claire adores Dean, and that almost makes it worse. He wonders, dimly, who she'd hate more if she ever grew up and realised the truth.

He packs away the groceries, wondering why Amelia has bought so much custard when no one but her eats the stuff. It's as he's putting the grapes in the fruit bowl that he hears it, a faint rustling sound, like someone pulling shredded paper out of a box. He grits his teeth, ignores it, and the rustling stops. He picks off a grape and chews it, slowly. He wonders what Claire would like for dinner tonight, whether she'll complain if they have pasta. He throws the empty bag away and stows the final item—a bag of carrots, organic, of course—in the vegetable drawer.

He barely has the fridge door closed before he's on his knees, an ear-splitting, electrical screech rending the air and his skull. He grits his teeth, stifling a cry of pain, and tries to breathe. The screech fades to a dull whine and, shaking, he gets to his feet. The sound fades, but it doesn't stop entirely. Now that he's listening, he can make out words—a name. Castiel.

It's not the first time he's heard that name. That name is the reason he dropped out of college, the reason Amelia thinks he spent two years during his early twenties in Singapore. He did go to Singapore, once, with his aunt and uncle when he was twelve. They spent a month there, a whole July. So when Amelia asked, it was the first place that came into his head.

Hearing it now, he feels the ground tremble beneath his feet, the earth cracking, foundations shifting. He realises the fridge door has swung back open, and he clicks it shut, tries to steady himself, and goes back outside.

"Sweetie?" Amelia asks, looking up at him. "Are you alright? You look—"

"Yeah," he says, aiming for Dean's easy casualness. "I'm fine. Just had a narrow encounter with the carving knife is all."

"What happened?" Bless her, Amelia actually sounds worried. Jimmy wonders just how worried she'd be if she knew the truth.

"I was putting it in the drawer," he says, and when did lying become so easy? "I dropped it."

Dean laughs, and Jimmy wants to punch him in the back of the head. Amelia scowls at him, and Dean quiets. "Are you alright?" she asks again.

"Yeah," he says. "It missed my foot."

Amelia stands, presses a hand to his shoulder as she passes him. "I'll make dinner tonight," she says. "You relax."

Jimmy thinks maybe relaxing would be a good idea, but he doesn't even know if he remembers how. He takes his seat on the porch step, his knee just brushing Dean's. He expects Dean to move, shift a little so they aren't touching anymore, but he doesn't, and it would be nice if Jimmy weren't trying to figure out whether they look suspicious or not.

"You wanna come over to mine later?" Dean asks. He says 'later' because Jimmy never goes to Dean's before dinner. "You could say I need help fixing the plumbing."

Jimmy laughs a little at that; he can't help himself, the sound rushes out of his throat, surprising him. Dean smiles, and he moves, slow, deliberate, his hand brushing Jimmy's hip as he reaches back for his beer. Jimmy wishes he didn't feel the electric tingle of his touch, didn't feel this creeping sense of want and need that, despite his best efforts, he just can't suppress. "Okay," he says, and then Dean's draining his beer, standing, and striding across the lawn.

"Where're you going?" Jimmy calls after him.

"Home," Dean says, laughing at him. "I'll see you later."

As he watches Dean go, eyes falling to the bow of Dean's legs as he walks, he can't help feeling a little abandoned. But that's his issue, not Dean's, he reasons, and with a sigh he stands and heads into the house to help Amelia with dinner.

\---

It's nearly nine o' clock, and Jimmy doesn't know when he got so old, but it feels late. Dean is sprawled face down on the mattress beside him, naked, one arm hanging over the edge, one slung across Jimmy's chest.

Adultery is a sin, Jimmy knows, and one of the big ones—unless your bible is the 1631 Barker and Lucas edition, and his isn't—but he feels safe here in a way that he doesn't at home. He feels happy and content here with Dean beside him. If he was a better man—not a good man, but a better one—he'd ask Amelia for a divorce. But he doesn't want a divorce. He loves Amelia; he loves Claire. And, to the detriment of his soul, he loves Dean. He's never it said it out loud before, but he does. He _needs_ Dean.

He's just drifting off to sleep when his watch starts beeping. Dean groans beside him. It's his alarm—the one that tells him it's getting late and he needs to go home. Without it, he thinks he'd forget he even has a home. He feels Dean move beside him, his fingers stretching over Jimmy's skin, the tips of them pressing down hard, and, "Ow," Jimmy grunts. "Stop it." He curls his hand around Dean's, and Dean's fingers relax, stop trying to dig through him.

"Turn that fucking thing off," Dean growls, and Jimmy does. "I swear, I wake up to that thing one more time I'm gonna flush that stupid watch."

Jimmy chuckles and brushes Dean's hair away from his face. He usually keeps it short, but lately it's been growing out. Jimmy wonders if Dean can't be bothered to get a cut, or if he can't afford one.

Most of the furniture Dean owns was stolen from the tip a block away. The house is rented cheap from his uncle and his car, the only thing he has that's actually worth anything, was a hand-me-down from his father—just like his favourite leather jacket, his music collection, and the gun he keeps locked in his glove compartment. He doesn't even have a bed—instead he makes do with a mattress he found sitting on someone's front lawn.

Despite the crappy mattress, Jimmy is warm and comfortable here, and he doesn't want to go home. He wishes this was his life—this house instead of the one across the street, this makeshift bed, this man. But it isn't, and he hauls himself up and starts pulling on his clothes. They're scattered about the room, and he finds a sock hanging from between slats in the blinds. How it got there, he has no idea.

Dean doesn't see him out; he never does. He stays in bed and leaves Jimmy to creep through the twilight alone.

Amelia hasn't bothered to wait up. She knows that when it comes to Dean, Jimmy's always going to be late back. He peers in through the open crack of Claire's bedroom door, watches the back of her blonde head as she sleeps. She looks so much like Amelia it hurts. If he leaves, there'll be nothing to show he was ever here at all.

He's halfway to the bathroom when it happens—that whining sound drilling into his brain. He throws out a hand, palm slapping against the wall, to support himself, and waits for it to fade.

 _James_ , Castiel whispers. Castiel has always called him James, even though no one else has ever called him that; not even his mother. _James, listen._

But he won't listen; he _can't_ , because he knows if he does it will be the end of him. Then, he'll lose it all—Amelia, Claire, Dean. Everything will crack open and fall apart, and there'll be nothing left.

He locks himself in the bathroom and turns on the shower, humming to himself to block out the sound of Castiel's voice, the persistent call of his name. He focuses on tuning him out, and when that fails, he tries to turn the volume down.

He wraps a towel around his waist and pulls a fresh set of clothes out of the linen closet, then folds up the ones he's disturbed.

He heads back downstairs, into the kitchen, and pulls everything out of the cutlery drawer, rearranging the knives, forks and spoon in size order, biggest in first, smallest on top. He sets the clean washing up on the rack in its rightful place, nearly dropping the carving knife on his foot. He laughs; it seems fate can be tempted after all.

_James._

Jimmy isn't listening. He won't. He hangs the knife on the metal strip by the cooker and pulls a beer from the fridge. Maybe he can drown Castiel out that way. He grabs a second, and pushes through the door, strides out across the street, and lets himself back into Dean's house. He doesn't know why he does it, but he doesn't want to be alone and, although Dean's asleep the same as Amelia, he feels safer here.

He sits on the couch, the only piece of furniture that came with the place, probably left behind because half the springs are broken, and drinks his beer. He doesn't know how long he sits in the dark before he hears the creak of the loose floorboard and the light flickers on.

Dean stands in the doorway, watching him, saying nothing, his expression shuttered. Jimmy tries a smile and a shrug, and holds out the second beer. Dean moves forward, takes it, and sits cross-legged on the floor, waiting for something.

"Couldn't sleep," Jimmy says, and that's true enough—he can't sleep, because the second he closes his eyes and lets his mind relax, Castiel will be back.

"Yeah?" Dean says, his voice rough with sleep. "Well I was doing just fine 'til you broke in."

"I didn't break in. I came through the door."

"If you wanted to stay, you could have just asked," Dean says, and Jimmy frowns. He's never stayed a whole night with Dean before, and, as far as he's aware, Dean's never wanted him to. "Why the sneaking?"

Jimmy shrugs again. "Didn't want to wake you."

"Sure." Dean's nod is slow, like he doesn't believe him, then, "Ames okay?"

"Yeah," Jimmy nods. "Yeah, she's fine. We're fine." He knows what Dean meant—he wasn't asking after Amelia's health.

"Look, Jimmy." Dean sighs, and Jimmy feels dread creep through his gut and up into his chest. "I guess I've been meaning to tell you ..."

Jimmy's hands tighten on his beer as Dean looks for the right words to say whatever he wants to say. Through the silence, Castiel whispers his name.

Dean scrubs a hand over his face, and Jimmy knows then that it's bad, that it's life changing, that he's never going to be the same after this moment. Dean's breaking it off, doing what Jimmy should have done eleven months ago. He's being the better man, and breaking Jimmy's heart in the process. "I'm leaving town next week."

Jimmy feels like someone just punched him between the ribs. He can barely breathe, and his chest hurts. He nods, says nothing, because there's nothing he can say.

"You okay?" Dean asks, but Castiel is louder.

 _You should have listened, James,_ Castiel says. _But it's alright. This is meant to be. You're chosen._ Jimmy breathes a sigh of relief. It's all okay. It's going to be okay because Dean, whatever he might mean to Jimmy now, is meant to leave. He just wishes it didn't hurt so much.

"Jimmy?" Dean says, and the use of his name brings him back to reality. He pushes Castiel back, tries to focus on Dean and not the voices in his head, but it's hard to concentrate. "Jimmy, I'm not ... I don't want to leave you."

Jimmy frowns, and he jumps as the beer bottle slips through his fingers and clatters to the ground, rolling away and under the couch. He stares after it, unmoving, wondering where it went.

"Jimmy? Are you listening to me?" Dean clicks his fingers in front of his face. It's annoying, and Jimmy closes his hand around Dean's to stop him doing it.

"I'm listening," he says, his voice sounding strained even to his own ears.

"I want you to come with me."

Jimmy closes his eyes, slumps back against the couch, springs creaking. He shakes his head, no. He can't.

"Jimmy, why—"

"No, Dean," he says, and it's final, the thud of a door closing. He's tired, too tired for this, and he keeps his eyes closed as he curls up on the couch. Whatever Dean says next is lost to him beneath the sound of buzzing that fills his head, more voices than just Castiel's now, a whole heavenly host tuned into his brain.

He opens his eyes to see Dean still standing there, his green eyes glowing in the moonlight, far brighter than they should be. Jimmy is frozen in their light, and he wants to touch Dean, to press his fingers gently to his eyelids and block out their glow, but he can't move. _James,_ Dean says, but it's Castiel's voice coming out of his mouth. _James, listen. Come with me._

It's an effort, but Jimmy manages to shake his head. He can't—he has Amelia and Claire to think about.

 _James,_ Dean tries again, his eyes briefly fluttering closed, shrouding the room in darkness before he opens them again. _This is meant to be._

\---

Jimmy jerks awake in the small hours of the morning, and Dean is nowhere to be found. He searches through every room of the house before he thinks to look in the driveway. The impala is gone, and he feels a moment of panic before he remembers it's a Thursday, and Dean works at his uncle's garage on Thursdays.

Two months ago, Jimmy would have been at work now too. Instead the only things he has to do today are mow the lawn and take a trip to the employment agency.

He spends most of the day thinking about Dean's offer. He knows very little of Dean's life before this last year, but he knows he spent most of it on the road with his father and brother. Would life be like that for him, if he went with Dean? Staying in motel rooms and eating in diners, never in one place for too long, never settling down? He has to admit there's a certain romance to it, driving away into the sunset, the freedom of the open road, but Jimmy's always been a practical man, and he can't see himself taking cold showers and living off cheeseburgers and diet coke.

And then there's money. He knows Dean isn't big on obeying the commandments, and he gets the impression he was used to taking what he needed, even if what he needed belonged to somebody else. Jimmy has never stolen anything in his life, and doesn't think he could even if he wanted to—which he doesn't.

Today, Castiel is blissfully silent, and Jimmy thinks maybe it's going to be okay, it was just a one day blip.

After he mows the lawn, Jimmy sits in Claire's room, tapping his fingers absently on her desk. The room smells like her, fresh linen and raspberry soap. The bed is made neatly, all her things tucked away, Mr Huggles sitting on top of the pillow.

If he leaves, how would she remember him? When she looks back, will she see the father who loved her or the one who left her? Jimmy doesn't remember his own father, knows him only as a figure cut out of every family photograph. His name was James too. He named his son after himself and then left him behind—why, Jimmy never knew, but he thinks he's getting a better idea now.

How would Amelia think of him? That, he can't think about. He knows she'll cope, move on. She can find another husband, a better one. Claire can't find another father.

He'll have to keep in contact, he thinks, because he can't just leave his daughter behind without any explanation, without telling her he loves her. That's when he realises he's actually considering this, and it sends a thrill of excitement and fear through him.

He shuts the door to Claire's room, grabs his coat from the hook, then puts it back again. He isn't going to the employment agency today. He's leaving with Dean next week, leaving this town, this life, behind him.

He realises he's trembling as Amelia walks through the door, and he tries not to tense as she pecks him on the cheek. He's cutting vegetables, and she thinks his stillness is because he has a knife in his hand. Jimmy's always careful with knives, unlike Amelia, who has been known to walk around with them point out. When he brought her up on it, she laughed and said, "Oh, honey, but you're so much more expendable than I am." She didn't mean it, he knows that, but it stung. Amelia's sense of humour has always had something of a bite to it.

As Amelia slips out into the living room to switch on the news, Jimmy looks at the knife in his hand. Castiel is back again. It wasn't a one day blip after all, and now he's talking about the knife. If Jimmy's chosen, he can prove it. Castiel will make sure a cut won't bleed.

Jimmy raises the knife, holds it against the skin of his wrist, presses down and pulls it across. It hurts, and the blood wells to the surface. It's not a deep cut, but it bleeds.

"You lied to me," he growls, the knife clattering as it falls into the sink, and he reaches for the tea towel, presses it against the cut.

 _You needed to see your own strength,_ Castiel tells him, and it kind of makes sense. He's not bleeding badly, and although it hurts, he's still standing. But then it's not like he's never been hurt before. He's certainly been hurt worse than this, and he can remember a time when a broken bone was nothing to cry about.

 _You're still strong,_ Castiel tells him. _And you will be able to do this. Your purpose is divine._

"Yeah?" Jimmy says, keeping his voice low; Amelia's only in the next room. "And what's that?"

_You're a vessel, chosen by God._

"A vessel," he repeats. It doesn't make sense. He shouldn't be listening. He should focus on chopping carrots, but he isn't sure picking the knife up again is a good idea.

 _I need you to let me in,_ Castiel says, and Jimmy's obviously been hanging out with Dean too much, because it sounds vaguely dirty. _I need you to say yes. A storm is coming, and I need you to stop it._

Jimmy doesn't understand. How can he do anything? He can't even sort his own life out, let alone whatever Castiel has in store for him.

It isn't like the first time. Back then he was pleased when Castiel started talking to him. He was so eager to believe, had always believed in God, in angels, and now here was proof. Except his proof had landed him a mental institution for two years. Castiel hadn't asked anything of him then, though, he'd just been there, in his head, until he wasn't any more. Jimmy remembers that being worse; the days after Castiel left had felt empty. Now he wonders if the last ten years haven't been just as empty.

He's messed up, he knows. He's messed everything up.

 _You can fix it,_ Castiel says, and Jimmy breathes out a laugh.

"I can fix it," he says, and takes a new knife from the rack to finish cutting the rest of the vegetables.

\---

"You ready?" Dean asks, and Jimmy nods. Amelia and Claire are asleep upstairs. A carefully sealed note sits on the counter in front of the fruit bowl—not the first place she'll go in the morning, but something she'll find later, when she's awake and more prepared to hear what he has to say. There's a note for Claire too, but it will be up to Amelia whether or not she gets it.

He grabs his coat from the stand, and picks up the small suitcase he's packed while Dean gets the larger one. "Jesus," he says, ignoring Jimmy's pissed expression. "You pack your whole damn house in here or something?"

Dean's probably used to travelling light, but Jimmy isn't. He's taken what he thinks he'll need—clothes, a little food, his laptop computer, the savings he usually keeps locked in the safe in the study, a photograph of him and Claire.

Dean's already out the door and halfway to the car, but Jimmy needs to say goodbye to this place, the way he can't say goodbye to his wife and daughter. He looks around, and it feels like he's seeing the place for the first time. He notices how high the ceiling is, much higher than the house he grew up in. The floor tile closest to the door is cracked, and the plants on the windowsill need watering.

He puts down his suitcase, fills a glass from the draining board with water, and gradually tips a little into each pot.

_James._

He tries to ignore it this time, but Castiel is persistent, and he puts the glass down on the counter a little harder than he means to. "What?" he snaps.

 _It's time,_ Castiel says, and he sounds almost apologetic. _I need you now._

He turns, meaning to ignore Castiel, to leave him behind, but his eyes brush past a photograph taped to the fridge—the one Amelia's mother took four years ago when they took Claire to the zoo. It's just the three of them in the picture, and Jimmy doesn't quite remember that day, but they all look so happy. _Claire_ looks happy, and Jimmy realises that he can't remember the last time he saw her smile.

 _James,_ Castiel says, more insistent. _I need you._

Jimmy's shoulders slump, and he has to lean against the counter to stop himself sliding to the floor in a crumpled heap. He's always been a pathetic excuse for a man. His mother knew it the moment he was born; his father knew it; his brother certainly knew it. Jimmy, as usual, is the last to catch on to this fact. "What do I have to do?" he asks, and when Castiel answers, he nods. "Just promise me one thing."

Castiel promises, and when the world fades out around him, Jimmy is almost glad.

\---

Claire watches from her bedroom window as her father leaves under the light of a flickering streetlamp. He stands too straight, his shoulders tense, like he's waiting to be struck by lightning. Dean is waiting in his car at the bottom of their drive, and she watches as Jimmy opens the passenger door and climbs in. Dean revs the engine, and then they're gone, pulling away and leaving an empty space behind them.  



End file.
